


When one story ends

by heskaarl (ohthe_bliss)



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Fix-It, No Shepard without Vakarian, mention of romance, post-destroy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 14:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12913536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohthe_bliss/pseuds/heskaarl
Summary: This was it. The end. A chapter winding up just in time for the next one. The journey had been painful… but Miranda knew she’d do it all over again if Shepard asked.





	When one story ends

It was almost cliche how much Miranda’s world had changed after Shepard woke up.

That sort of thing only happened in vids and books. Dramatic shifts in worldviews brought upon by the existence of a single person. For a typical person, the looming threat of an alien race committed to ensuring the start of an ancient fifty thousand-year-old cycle would trump the comparatively minuscule splash a lone person made in one’s life.

Miranda had never been a typical person. She had been designed to stand apart from the crowd, to be the crowning achievement of a selfish man’s dynasty. Mortal concepts like ‘typical’ and ‘ordinary’ had no place alongside perfection.

As for Shepard...

Well, the rules of life just didn’t seem to apply to her.

It seemed like another life that Miranda’s skill and career had been put to the ultimate test. _‘The Reapers are the real threat,’_ the Illusive Man had said with a deep exhale cloud of smoke. ‘ _And we need a hero who can stop them.’_ She’s agreed of course; it was so logical, so black and white. The Reapers posed a problem. Shepard was the solution.

Only Shepard had died _._ Floating along the wreckage of what once was the Normandy SR-1 the legend had suffocated in the freezing vacuum of space, alone. All because she refused to leave behind the stubborn, crippled pilot who’d had no business defying a direct order from his commanding officer. Unnecessarily sentimental, Miranda had said in her report. A commander did not have the luxury of sentiment, particularly not in times of crisis. Pilot’s, even ones of Mr. Moreau’s caliber, were replaceable. Leader’s like Shepard weren’t. At least not quite so easily.

It would not be the first time she’d been proven wrong by her.

* * *

 

Two years, five months and nineteen days. That was how long Shepard spent in the direct care of Miranda. Minutes bled into hours with each sliver of shrapnel removed, hours turning to days with every successful organ transplant. Months were spent hand installing every single implant with a precision that could only be matched by a machine. Miranda had been designed to be perfect - her work could be no less.

And while Shepard had not originally been designed to be perfect, it was at the request of the Illusive man that upgrades be installed. ‘ _At your discretion of course,’_ he’d said. _‘It is your project Lawson, and I trust your judgment on what it is you decide is necessary.’_ Miranda was careful with the cosmetic upgrades. Make her Shepard, but better. Humans were visual creatures; the more pleasing to the eye the subject was, the more agreeable the other party. Just basic psychology and something she was more than happy to exploit. Shepard was still Shepard as she had been before, all sharp angles and dark hair.  A larger bust, slight adjustments to the eyebrows, a backside with a more pleasing definition - just polishing the already existing foundation.

She’d been proud of her work. All that was left was for Shepard to finish healing on the table in her medically induced coma, and they would go about what needed to be done to protect humanity. Simple. Clean. And absolutely not what happened.

The legend had awoken with a fury that didn’t fully retreat until face to face with the quarian. Everything the Illusive Man said fanned the flames of her rage ever higher and higher. It had been infuriating. Everything she’d studied over the last two years, learning every bit of her life had led her to believe the commander was the picture of poise and restraint. A paragon of justice and mercy - not this titan of war and pain.

For a while Miranda hated her. Childish, she thought as Shepard’s unimpressed pale green eyes swept around the new Normandy. She dismissed both her and Jacob, preferring the company of her pilot and surprisingly enough EDI. Miranda had expected Shepard to feel off-balance. Perhaps even a little nervous. This cold calculated efficiency more suited to a war goddess didn’t fit the model of what Shepard had been before.

Amazingly enough, all it took was the sound of her name from a dual-flanged voice for the goddess armor to crack. Holed up at the end of a kill-zone in an apartment building-turned-tomb was a large turian in grubby armor clutching a wicked looking rifle. Archangel according to the dossier. Garrus according to Shepard.

Each new ally they obtained brought a little of the Shepard Miranda had expected to come to the fore. Her competence was never questioned. The commander was the utmost professional when on deck. The woman behind the uniform, however, was difficult to get to know.

All it took was for Miranda to lay down her own pride to ask for her assistance for Oriana. She’d done it without expectation of anything in return, but whether she knew it or not, the commander had earned her loyalty.

After the Collector base was destroyed the crew scattered to the winds at her insistence. “You’ve done more than enough already,” she’d said quietly. “I won’t let any of you catch the fallout of this bullshit.”

They’d protested _because of course they did,_ Garrus’ voice the loudest of them all, but Shepard was dead-set. One by one they disembarked, reluctant goodbyes hanging strangely in the air. If anyone else noticed the sudden transfer of personal belongings from the main gun battery to Shepard’s quarters it wasn’t mentioned. Comfort and love were scarce these days - she wouldn’t begrudge them finding it in each other.

The Reapers attacked and Miranda once more found her skills put to the test. It wasn’t in a state of the art lab with unlimited funding and a hand-picked staff. Rather it was in a hospital more rubble than a medical facility with laughable supplies and half-dead field medics.

In a leaking sink, she scrubbed up as best. Her operating theatre was missing a wall, but someone had thought to put up the remains of a field tent to plug the hole. Two turians and three humans stood at the ready, guarding the still figure on the gurney at the center of the room.

They’re too afraid to touch her but Miranda doesn’t have this problem. It’s morbid in its familiarity; pulling shrapnel and bullets from the broken body. In an OR further down the timeline there would have been time to spread out the work, but they were here and now in the middle of a war zone. There was no time.

Except, because of the woman on her table, they had all the time in the world.

Her hands are steady even after regular doses of stims given by the taller of the two turians. He’s not a doctor or in possession of medical training, he tells her during a lull. Garrus was an old friend from C-Sec, he’d said. I’m honored to stand guard over his mate until he can.

She speaks to the team only when necessary: _‘scalpel’_ or ‘ _stim’_ or _‘suction’._ She’s used to being obeyed and here it is no exception. While Shepard still commands the most awe and respect, her speed and precision of picking up the pieces of their broken symbol garner a little. The black stitches look like patchwork against the pale spacer skin, sewed up with every bit of love and affection Miranda can put into them. Bits and pieces that don’t belong get tossed into the metal bowl propped up on a whiskey barrel of all things. Miranda doesn’t care, only that it’s routinely emptied as needed. With every extraction of broken tech she pours in her love and faith. In every installation of replacement cybernetics goes loyalty and dedication. Each stitch is a promise to always be there when she needs her. Every injection is a reminder that she is loved. Every gentle touch is a vow of devotion that she’d previously shared only with Oriana.

It’s with eyes blurry with both tears and exhaustion that Miranda squints through as she ties off the last stitch that would hold her sister together. For now anyway. It’s crude but efficient - and when the time comes, Miranda will stand over Shepard once more to put her back together; this time better. Multiple hands both alien and human reach out to catch her when she falls. The muscles in her legs to stiff and cramped to hold her on their own.

When she wakes up she cries at the sight of the woman she considered her sister. Pale and frail and far too still - the bed truly isn’t big enough for both Shepard’s amazon physique and Miranda’s svelte self, but there isn’t anywhere else Miranda wanted to be. There was no one else left of their crew.

* * *

 

They wait.

Nothing else to do but wait. Miranda is aggressive in keeping away those who would disturb her sister’s rest. She stands a bulwark against admirer’s, well-wishers, and survivors. Hackett’s attempts are the most numerous, but she is firm in her stance.

“No,” she tells him. “You have asked enough of her.”

“They need to see her,” he insists. “Her work is not done.”

“That is not for you to decide!” She feels half-mad as she probably looks. Sponge baths and a lack of a hairbrush don’t do much in regards to appearance. With fists clenched and feet planted, she stands between them. She’ll always stand between them if she has too.

“It isn’t yours either.”

At least not until communications are restored. With all the energy of a hurricane, Miranda shoots message after message, call after call, searching for anyone who might still be alive. The Normandy, her sister, old Cerberus contacts -

And then one day she comes back to Shepard’s beside, mind ruminating over the Ark still sitting ready for launch in the Perseus Veil, to see a battered looking Turian holding her hand.

Her hand goes toward the gun at her hip. He looks up and then she’s crying again.

“Garrus - ”

_They’re back._

Only, not all of them. Vega’s and Javik’s names were now mounted on the memorial wall. Liara had lost her left arm at the shoulder and Tali would never speak with her own voice again. Kaiden would have a limp every step he took.  In a twisted sense of irony, Joker had escaped with the least amount of injury. No one came out of this war unscathed.

In hushed tones, she tells Garrus what she knows. An ark, a new start in a new galaxy. A chance to rest and put down the gun for a while. He listens intently, eyes fixed on his mate’s face as they usually were. She answers his questions and lets him ponder. When she goes to bed that night curled up on the floor next to Shepard she actually feels like she’s made a tiny bit of progress.

It was no easy feat to smuggle her out but they did it. Tali herself had piloted the shuttle, escorted by the remains of the migrant fleet to the waiting _Keelah Si’Yah._ It was over a year late for launch but within the hour final precious cargo was boarded. Before launch, they had found a spare pod meant for an elcor, refitted to hold both Garrus and Shepard. It was only fitting they go together. Settling in took some delicacy but they managed. They always did _. No Shepard without Vakarian._

She leaned heavily against the now activated stasis pod, shaking fingers brushing over the glass obscuring a face as familiar as her own.

 

“I’ll see you soon, Nova,” she promised. “Plenty of stories to tell when you wake up.”

_We made it._

 


End file.
